


The Sacrifice Play

by kelex



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Crowley is not Raphael, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 06:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19847569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelex/pseuds/kelex
Summary: Hell takes Aziraphale as a hostage for Crowley’s good behavior.  Crowley takes exception to that.  And then he goes to some pretty extraordinary lengths to fix it.





	The Sacrifice Play

**Author's Note:**

> Once more, with feeling: **graphic descriptions of Aziraphale getting tortured.** Beware, beware, be a very wary bear! Ineffable Husbands Bingo: Torture Square. Took some minor liberties with a bit of angelic lore; more details on that at the end.

It took Crowley a week to find Aziraphale. 

At first, he’d suspected Heaven. He knew they’d still be pissy about the attempted murder--at least, that’s how he still thought of it. The attempted murder of his angel. And he’d been on the lookout for those white-feathered fucks to try it again. 

But when it finally happened, it wasn’t Heaven at all. 

It was Hell.

He’d been out, ostensibly to cause a bit of havoc in the mortal world, because he wasn’t exactly answering to Hell’s to-do list any more, but in fact, he’d been on a trip to find a particularly hard-to-locate book and wheedle it out of its owner’s hands. He’d given it three days, and gotten it done in two. Of course it’d taken a little magic, a little threatening, and three blow jobs, but he’d gotten the job done. 

And then he’d come home, book in his back pocket as a gift for his angel, except Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Which was a bit strange, but nothing that was alarming until he didn’t actually come back. 

And then two more days passed, and Crowley started to actively feel him out. Because when Aziraphale was gone for extended periods of time? That was when Aziraphale got into trouble and needed rescuing. 

And there was about two more days of Crowley trying to track the angel down. Because his Aziraphale-radar didn’t seem to be working quite the way it should have been, which started sending off warning bells, and made him think Heaven. 

Fourth day back, a crusty little demonic messenger had brought Crowley a message.  _ You better come home, Crowley, because I don’t think your little angel friend can last much longer. _

\----

He didn’t bother with the escalators; they were too slow and called for too much bullshit. Pretty much every demon had a personal way in and out of Hell, and Crowley went directly to his. Slid down through the earth like the snake he’d once been, tunneling for what felt like eternity but was actually moments. Landed hard on his feet, dusting his jacket off, and found himself surrounded. “Hi, guys. Where’s Aziraphale?” 

The lesser demons formed a loose ring around Crowley. They well remembered his immunity to Holy Water, and they didn’t want to get close enough to get destroyed. But they were there to herd him along, and they all crowded him towards the dark hallway off to the left of the landing chamber. 

Crowley was fighting himself to stay calm. On the one hand, it was quite easy. Staying calm, finding out what was going on, those were key to finding his way to Aziraphale and getting them both the fuck out of here. However, the sheer audacity of Hell thinking to lay a hand on Crowley’s angel made him want to start pulling down buildings and chewing his way through the demonic hordes. 

But the calm won out, for now. He was very calm and very languid as he let the encircling demons guide him where they wanted him to go. They ended up in the same room that Aziraphale had described during Crowley’s trial. The bathtub was obviously gone, but the glass-walled partition was still in the place. Where the demon hordes had crammed in before, there were three chairs, one already occupied by Beelzebub. 

On the other side of the glass, where the tub and thrones had been, the room had been turned into a large cell. 

Inside the cell, Aziraphale was chained. His arms were outstretched and chained to the ceiling, pulling his body taut. His ankles were cuffed together, and a short chain connected them to the floor, toes barely allowed to touch. He had been stripped naked, and was covered in blood, slime, and other things that Crowley refused to think about because the rage was already building. 

“What issss thisssss?” He cursed the hiss mentally, because it was showing his anger, tipping his hand as to the depths of his emotional involvement. 

“Thizzzz izzzz for you,” Beelzebub answered, their flies buzzing lazily around their head. “Let’zzzzz get on with it!” 

A grind of metal screamed through the cell as Aziraphale’s chains were pulled tighter. His shoulderblades strained as they were yanked almost out of their sockets, and Crowley was glowering, not at the glass but at Beelzebub. “Let him go. Now.”

“You’re not the one giving orderzzzzzz,” they snapped. “I zzzaid, get on with it!”

From the darkness, a lash of flame came out and sizzled across Aziraphale’s bare back. The angel gave a muffled scream, though it was hoarse, broken, almost habitual. Ichor dripped down the open lash marks and nearly extinguished the flame-covered whip that left burns in its wake. 

The lash fell in a different spot every time; across Aziraphale’s shoulders, his back, his thighs, his calves, his buttocks. There was no part of him that was spared, as even his arms bore marks from the whip. 

The short chains would not even allow Aziraphale to flinch away from the whip, nor move at all, and the chains screeched again as he was spun around to face the glass. 

His face was nearly unrecognizable, hair matted with silver ichor and slime. He’d been beaten, that was the least of it, and both eyes were all but swollen shut. A steel plate covered his mouth, screwed into the jaw and cheekbones. A spiked collar circled his throat, so that even if his head fell, he’d be stabbed in the chin or chest and he’d have to jerk back awake. 

His chest was a mass of bites, from his neck down to his thighs. Chunks of his flesh had been chewed off and spit to the side, and the soft, rounded belly that Crowley had loved to lay his head on was nearly gone, sawed and chewed and bitten all the way around. 

He was on Beelzebub in a flash, hands around their neck and squeezing hard enough to lift them out of their seat. “Stop it. Now. Or you’ll wish for something as easy as holy water.” 

Beelzebub showed no fear, only indifference. 

Another muffled scream, louder than the first, and Crowley turned back around. 

A glowing-hot brand was being applied to the angel’s face, scorching and burning the flesh to a blackened crisp. The steel plate did nothing this time to mask the pain in the scream, and Crowley dropped Beelzebub back into their seat. 

The brand was removed, and Crowley got the message quite clearly.  _ Behave yourself, or your angel is going to pay for it. _

“Zzzzzit down,” Beelzebub ordered.

Crowley did not feel like sitting. He was pacing the small room, keeping his back to the glass even as he kept his eyes on Beelzebub. “What do you want?”

“We already have what we want,” Beelzebub answered. “You will do azzzzz you’re told, when you are told to do it, or elzzzze.” They nodded towards the glass.

Crowley turned in time to hear Aziraphale scream again as the brand was laid against his chest, searing one of the oozing lash marks. 

Sparks from the brand bounced off the rod and hit the floor, singing white feathers that lay at the angel’s feet. 

White feathers.

Crowley snapped his fingers, a bright ball of light illuminating the other side of the glass. 

At first, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. White feathers on the wall of the cell, it was odd they would stick to the walls, wasn’t it? 

White feathers on the wall. “Oh my Satan,” he whispered, his throat strangling on the words as he tried to comprehend what he was seeing. He nearly couldn’t. It seemed impossible, unspeakable, even for demons. A mutilation that cut to the very depths of what it meant to  _ be _ Celestial, formerly or otherwise. “You didn’t.” 

Aziraphale’s snow-white wings, now bloody and grimy, were pinned to the wall of the cell in front of him. 

“They won’t grow back,” Crowley growled out, and his voice was barely recognizable as anything from a human throat. “You know that, they won’t grow back, you’ve mutilated him, you’ve destroyed him.”

“Yezzzzz, it was nezzzzezzzary to control him,” Beelzebub agreed. “And you. Blame yourself, Crow--”

Beelzebub never got to finish that sentence, because their head disappeared into the mouth of a  _ very _ large and  _ very _ angry serpent. 

The rage inside of Crowley was taking over, and he let it. He shed his human form and embraced the serpent. And it grew. Five feet, then seven, then twelve. Fifteen, and because he was in Hell, the home of demons, the source of their power, he didn’t stop. Wasn’t sure that he could stop. His fury reached out to the depths of Hell, funneling in power that he had never channeled before.

The glass shattered as Crowley’s bulk filled the small room, and then outgrew it. Larger than he had ever grown before, the room was collapsing around him. The ceiling cracked, then gave way, crushing what was left of Beelzebub’s body. It cracked the wall between the rooms into nothingness, and then the ceiling began to fall in the cell. 

Crowley’s tail lifted, bracing the ceiling around Aziraphale. He slithered over so that his coils completely wrapped the angel from head to toe, then laid his head over Aziraphale’s. Dropping his tail, the room shattered around them, but the angel was safe. A forked tongue licked Aziraphale’s face just once, reassuring him, and tightened his coils enough to make sure that the angel would not be harmed. 

Still he was growing, almost out of his control. Aziraphale lay limp in Crowley’s embrace, and that frightened him. It was a relatively new feeling, fright. He’d felt it before, always when he was faced with losing Aziraphale, but this was a different, fuller feeling, because even though the angel was there, he was also not. 

His angry hiss came out a roar, and he burst out of the building. Rubble rained down around them, and the demons that had been inside started to scatter. 

Crowley’s huge mouth snapped closed, swallowing many of them whole. Others he bit in half, yet others he stabbed through with venomous fangs, letting them fall to the ground pierced, bleeding, and screaming as fire spread through their veins. He wrapped himself around the tower in the center of Hell, Aziraphale still wrapped in his scales. 

The pools of sulfur were blazing as Crowley drank them down, and he breathed hellfire over the landscape. Buildings caught afire, burning demons ran in every direction, and Crowley breathed on them again. And again, and again until the sulfur was depleted, and then he refilled. Hell was full of brimstone and he could breathe it all. 

A weak tapping on his scales caught his attention, and he lifted Aziraphale up so that they were eye to eye. 

Aziraphale was weeping, tears squeezing out of blackened eyes and sliding down over charred and bloody cheeks. He was shaking his head, as much as he could manage in the spiked collar, and his still-chained hands were reaching out. 

Carefully as he could manage, Crowley angled his head to bite through the chains binding Aziraphale’s wrists, and those newly-freed arms wrapped weakly around as much of Crowley’s scales as he could embrace. He could barely see the angel’s eyes past the beating he’d taken, but he was struggling to make eye contact nevertheless. 

It wasn’t hard to see what he wanted.  _ Stop this, _ was in every bit of his body language. Trying to hug Crowley tightly, trying to restrain him, pulling back on him with whatever reserves of strength he had left. His tongue licked over Aziraphale’s face again, tasting the wetness of tears on his face, and it made him even angrier. 

Aziraphale’s fingers started pulling on the metal plate, but it wouldn’t budge. Not without a screwdriver, it wouldn’t, because in Hell, an angel’s miracles were severely limited, and Crowley’s magic was in no way strong enough to counter that of Hell’s head torturer. 

Gently, carefully, Crowley’s tail wrapped around Aziraphale, forming a rough sort of chair for him to sit in so that they could remain face to face. What little he could do was diminish the effects of the beating, and some of the swelling around Aziraphale’s eyes went down. 

They were full of pain, of anger and rage, but also of panic and fear. He was yanking at the plate again, and Crowley’s tongue nudged his hands away. “Ssssstop. Hurt yoursssssself.”

Aziraphale’s hands slapped Crowley’s scales first, and then his own chest. Obvious;  _ I will if you will. _

Crowley shook his head, staying coiled around the tower of Dis. “Desssserve thissss. Burn down Hell for you.” 

Frustrated, Aziraphale slapped Crowley’s scales again, because there was little else he could do. He slapped his own chest again, and then pointed angrily at the demons below. This time, his voice echoed in Crowley’s head.  _ If anyone should burn it down, it’s me. Stop, Crowley. Don’t be the demon they want you to be. My Crowley would not do this. _ Aziraphale cradled his head after that; the force of cramming his thoughts into Crowley’s head nearly split his head in two.

Crowley bent his head so that Aziraphale’s elbows rested on his skull. “Won’t let them do thissssss again.” 

The sardonic look that Aziraphale gave him spoke more volumes than any words could, and it was so much  _ Aziraphale _ that Crowley could not help the smile that curved his snake mouth up. “Yesssss, all right. Ssssstopping.” 

The sardonic look turned almost instantly into a smile. The damned plate covered the curled lips, but Crowley recognized the wrinkles at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes, the slight rise of his cheekbones, the red flush that couldn’t be hidden by bruises or metal.  _ Thank you, Crowley _ didn’t even need to be said, but he heard an echo of it in his head anyway. 

Ever so carefully, Crowley loosened his coils and slid down the tower’s icy glass. Aziraphale was still safely cushioned by his head and his tail, and once they were on the ground, Crowley roared another long hiss at the few demons who hadn’t already scattered. Arching his back, two great black wings manifested, and he lowered Aziraphale between them. “Hold tight,” he hissed over his shoulder, and waited for Aziraphale’s hands to clutch his wings tightly. 

The angel’s sure grip came moments later, and Crowley let his wings unfurl to their full span before beating them and lifting himself into the air. 

\-----

They erupted through Etna. Magma and ash spewed out behind them, and Aziraphale kicked Crowley weakly in the side even as he sealed the volcanic breach with the last of his strength. 

Crowley had, at least, cloaked them from human eyes, so no one saw a great flying serpent break out of a volcano and soar over half a continent. He had the feeling, however, of a great many eyes upon him, and he raised his tail in a rude gesture skyward. The feeling of being watched diminished, and Crowley gave a pleased chuff. 

By the time Crowley landed outside of London, Aziraphale had either fallen asleep, or passed out. He rippled sinuously, sliding the angel onto the grass before he slithered away. Half an hour later, a bloated but human Crowley picked Aziraphale up like a rag doll and carried him to the closest car park. He laid Aziraphale in the back seat of the most plush car he could locate, miracled the ignition, and drove straight to the bookshop.

\-----

When Aziraphale woke, he was home. He was in the back room of the bookshop, and Crowley was lying on the floor beside him. Scowling down, he looked at Crowley’s over-fed belly and then touched his own mouth. The plate had been removed, obviously while he was sleeping, and he cracked his jaw. 

Pain flared through him as he did, and he realized that perhaps that was not the smartest thing to have done. It wrung a little cry out of him, and that small cry was enough to jolt Crowley onto his feet. “Angel? You’re awake?”

He nodded gingerly. “I think so,” he said softly, moving his mouth as little as possible. 

“Good. Don’t talk.” Crowley picked up a pitcher of chipped ice, and poured both ice and a little of the melted water into a cup, and held it up to the angel’s mouth. “Here, sip it slowly.”

Aziraphale lifted his hands to hold the cup, and realized they were both in splints. “What--” is all he got the chance to get out. The cold water tasted like ambrosia, and he wanted to gulp it down. Crowley, however, wouldn’t let him. He doled it out in small sips, and then left Aziraphale with ice chips to crunch. After a moment’s silence spent staring at his bandaged hands, he finally lifted his head and looked at Crowley, who was studiously not meeting his gaze. “How bad is it?”

Crowley nearly bit his lip through. “It’s nothing that won’t heal, given time and a few more miracles,” he hedged.

“Crowley.” Nothing else, just the no-nonsense call of his name. 

“What?” Still didn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes, instead rolling up a piece of gauze that had come loose from the splint and tucking it back around Aziraphale’s wrist. 

“Look at me.” Aziraphale used one splinted hand to lift Crowley’s chin and force the eye contact. “How bad is it?”

Crowley closed his eyes. “It’s… it’s not good.”

“Tell me.” Aziraphale was tensed, bracing for the bad news. And he got it. 

“They… they cut off your wings,” he said in a rush, and couldn’t keep the eye contact any longer. He got moving around the room, pacing like a caged animal. “They cut them off and hung them on the goddamn wall like trophies.”

Aziraphale had nothing to say to that except, “I see. Thank you, Crowley, for the timely rescue.” 

“Don’t say that. Don’t. Just don’t.” His pacing picked up speed.

“I rather think we’re beyond that now, don’t you?” The loss of his wings meant the loss of a great many things, and he was ready to deal with absolutely none of them. It did explain why his healing was going so slow. There was really only so much Crowley could do, after all, and without his wings… 

“Don’t thank me. It’s my fault, Aziraphale. Beelzebub and the demons, they took you, because of me. To get me back in line, to do what I was told or else… or else you’d pay for it, and you really did.” The pacing turned into almost stalking. “I’m going to get your wings back. I’m owed some favors, still.”

“Crowley, stop. They won’t grow back. I’ll just learn to make do.” A wingless angel, how in the name of Heaven was he going to continue on? “And you’ll be there to help me out when I need a little extra help, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, but that’s not the point. There’s only so much I can do, angel. The rest is up to your wings.” His fist was grinding into his palm. “Everything else I can heal. Most of it is done, the rest is just finishing up. I couldn’t do it all at once, didn’t want to overwhelm your body.” 

Aziraphale wanted to be left alone to weep, but he knew Crowley would not leave him. And so he lied. “I think I could eat,” he said after a moment, changing the subject. “Something easy, perhaps some of that soup that we both enjoyed a few years ago at Rispanti’s.” 

“Yes, the one with the zucchini and the meatballs,” Crowley agreed. “Don’t know if they still make it, but even if they don’t, they’ll make a batch for me. I’ll go and bring it back, and what you don’t want to finish I’ll leave in the refrigerator for later.” Anything that would get him out of the room and away from the soft, forgiving gaze of the angel. “Might take care of a few errands while I’m out.” He stalked over to the couch and moved the table with the telephone within hand’s reach. “Just tell it to call Crowley’s mobile, and I’ll pick up right off.” 

“All right, but I will be fine while you’re out,” Aziraphale promised. 

Crowley put his hand gently on the back of Aziraphale’s head and pulled it forward to rest against his shoulder. “I won’t be long, angel, I promise.” He kissed Aziraphale’s forehead softly. “Trust me. I’m going to make this right.” And then he was gone, before Aziraphale could even protest. 

“I’m sure,” he said to the empty air, and waited until he heard the downstairs bell go off before he lifted his hands to his face and wept. 

\-----

Crowley had returned the other car to the car park, and brought his Bentley back to the bookshop. Once behind the wheel, he did something that he had never done before. He changed the dial from FM to AM. There was a burst of white noise, and a rude voice snapped, “Well? What do you want?”

“Nice way to talk to your brother.” Crowley glared at the radio. “You owe me, Rapahel.”

Another burst of white noise that couldn’t disguise the sigh. “Azarias, what do you want?”

“You know bloody well what I want. Fix. Him. You’re the bloody healer of the angels, I want him healed!”

Raphael closed the channel and appeared in the Bentley beside Crowley. “You know, that really wasn’t a smart thing to do, brother.”

Crowley’s hands were fists on the steering wheel. “I don’t care. I want him fixed, and we’re done. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Raphael put his hands on his brother’s shoulder. “Not all of us hate you, Azarias.”

“It’s Crowley,” he corrected sharply. “I don’t go by that name any more.”

“Nevertheless, it is still who you are.” Raphael didn’t move his hand. “Listen to me, my brother. Even I have limits as to what I am able to do. I could certainly heal Aziraphale of his injuries--but I cannot return to him that which was taken. That’s beyond anyone except Her.”

“Then I’ll ask Her myself,” Crowley growled, slamming the car into gear. “You get me in there, and I’ll make Her do it.” 

“I can’t do that either.” If Crowley’s driving gave him pause, he didn’t show it. “Az--Crowley. You are not of Hell any more than you are of Heaven, are you?”

“No.” That was the easiest question in the universe. “I’m my own thing. I always have been.”

“Yes, you have.” Raphael sighed. “There is something I can do. But you would never be able to come back to Heaven, ever again. Even if She does welcome the Fallen, you would be forever barred.”

“Will it help him?” No name needed; only one him mattered to Crowley any more. 

“Yes, it will.”

“Then do it.” 

“You don’t know what it is,” Raphael reminded him. “Don’t you want to know before you agree to it?” 

Except Crowley did know. He had a sneaking suspicion that he had known all along, and hadn’t acknowledged it to himself, until now. “You’re going to take my wings,” Crowley said simply. “You’re going to take my wings and you’re going to give them to Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Raphael agreed. “If you agree to it. If he agrees to it.”

“No, there’s no  _ if he agrees to it. _ ” Crowley’s hands were tight on the wheel. “I agree to it. Take them. Fix  _ him. _ He’s the one that matters, he’s the bloody angel. Like you.”

Raphael kissed Crowley on the forehead. “Say it three times, my brother.” 

“I agree to it.” The third repetition of the agreement fell easily from his lips. 

Inside the Bentley, a great light filled the interior, as if a flaming sword had just been drawn. There was a searing pain, a feeling of severing, and Crowley screamed even as the light faded. The Bentley nearly rear-ended the lorry in front of it, swerved to miss it, and pulled over down an alleyway.

Raphael still sat in the car beside Crowley, and two black wings lay on his lap. 

Crowley turned in the seat so that he could look at his back in the mirror. Where the wing joints had once sprouted from his body, two jagged and ugly scars stood out against his skin. Pink, shiny, and still healing, they throbbed even as Raphael touched them. Under the archangel’s healing touch, the skin squirmed and writhed, turning new scars into knotted and twisted lines of white and puckered skin. 

The loss nearly consumed him. But Aziraphale would no longer feel that same hollowness, and that was more important to Crowley than anything else. 

“Is it worth it?” Raphael asked curiously. 

“It’s by far the best thing I’ve ever done.” 

A solemn nod from the archangel and he got out of the car carrying the wings. “Goodbye, my brother.” 

\-----

Crowley was utterly exhausted by the time he got back to the bookshop. Rispanti’s still had the zucchini and meatball soup on the menu, which meant he hadn’t had to miracle anything up except a wad of cash to pay for the soup. And even that small task had made his shoulders and his back ache. His clothes chafed against the scars, making him even more aware of them. 

He was so very glad to see the bookshop, wanted nothing more than a bottle of Aziraphale’s scotch and to see Aziraphale eating his soup and feeling better. 

He was met at the door by a wrathful angel, black wings spread like shadows over the sky. “ _ What the hell did you do, Crowley?” _

Crowley was too exhausted to argue, and too pleased to see Aziraphale whole again. “Got the soup you wanted,” was all he answered, holding the canister up. “Still on the menu, got you a whole gallon of it. Thought you could heat it up later, too.” He sat the soup down on the corner of Aziraphale’s desk. 

“I don’t care about the soup!” His fists grabbed Crowley’s shirt and lifted him by it. “What did you do? What deal did you make?  _ Why did you do it?” _

Crowley didn’t struggle as he dangled from Aziraphale’s fists. “I couldn’t stand to see you suffer, is all.” A shrug, as best he could manage, and he did his best to hide the wince. 

It wasn’t enough. Aziraphale shook him again, and let him drop. “So now I get to watch you suffer instead?”

“M’not suffering, angel, I’m exhausted.” Crowley picked himself up off the floor, and draped over the couch instead. 

“Tell me what you did. What did you do, Crowley? Who do you owe?” Aziraphale’s wings rustled in the bookshop, stirring pages on the desk.

“I don’t owe anyone. I told you, I was still owed some favors. I called one in,” Crowley explained.

“With whom?”

“Who do you think? Raphael,” came the snapped answer. “He’s the bloody healer of the angels, isn’t he?”

“And so you thought you’d just trade your wings for mine, is that right?” 

“Yes, that’s right. You’re an angel, Aziraphale. You can’t be an angel without your wings. I’m sorry they’re black. I don’t know if they’ll turn white or not. But they’re yours now, that’s what matters.” 

Aziraphale flexed his fingers. He’d been asleep when Raphael arrived, and by the time he was wakened by the pain of attachment, the archangel had already healed his other injuries as well. He felt, broadly speaking, like himself. But he could not fathom why Crowley had sacrificed for him, could not fathom why he felt so angry about it. “What will it do to you?”

“Nothing much. Demons don’t really need their wings.” Which was true enough, but it was a matter of pride. Plumage counted. “Angels do.”

“Not like this,” Aziraphale said sadly, shaking his head mournfully. “Not like this. Crowley, you can never--”

“Wouldn’t want to anyway. Saw enough of that, thanks, don’t really want to have another go-around,” Crowley butted in, cutting him off. 

Aziraphale went to the couch and wrapped his wings around Crowley, holding him tightly inside the feathered embrace. “You are an absolute jerk,” he whispered, the worst he could think of. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

Crowley let his cheek rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his arm going around his waist and curling into the soft, warm stomach that he’d always adored on his angel. “Because you’d have said no, and I wouldn’t take the chance. I’m going to ask your forgiveness, not your permission, even though I know what I am.”  _ Unforgivable _ went without saying. 

“Of course I’d have said no.” He brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “And of course I forgive you.” 

“That’s what angels do,” Crowley agreed. “Forgive the unforgivable.” 

Aziraphale caught the yawn at the end of the sentence, and kept Crowley blanketed with his wings. “Close your eyes, my dear.”

“I think just for a bit, yes.” Crowley fell almost instantly asleep. 

Aziraphale held him for six weeks, neither moving a muscle.

\-----

After another five thousand years, the world finally did come to an end. It wasn’t a spectacular end, and it wasn’t anyone against anyone else. A meteorite the size of a small planet had entered the atmosphere, cracked apart, and devastated the planet.

Aziraphale was recalled to Heaven; his wings were once again snowy white, and while he had protested at first, Heaven had quit arguing and simply yanked him up, leaving Crowley alone on Earth. 

The bookshop was still there; Aziraphale had resisted every attempt to turn it into anything else over the years, and the double protections laid on it by the both of them had saved it. It was where he spent his days now, reading the books collected by his angel. 

The bell over the door went off, and Crowley looked over, uninterested. Occasionally a dog or a cat pushed their way in, and he sent them on their way again. 

This time, it was three angels he didn’t recognize, dressed in all their warrior finery. “Not open today,” Crowley said shortly and went back to his book. On the frontispiece, there were a hundred and thirty seven hash marks; today would be mark one hundred and thirty eight. 

“Azarias, Grigori and Watcher, under Azazel the Prefect, also known as Crawly, and Anthony J. Crowley?” Three voices spoke in unison. 

Crowley shut his book with an irritated slam. “Guys, come on. I’m trying to read here.” 

They ignored him. “You have been summoned to appear before the Principalities.”

Crowley actually laughed at that. “Bit of a problem with that, mates.” He turned around, letting his shirt disappear to display the horrific scars of his wing severing. “Can’t get through the gates looking like this.”

The three angels were impassive. “An Exception has been made by She on High,” they intoned together. “You are to be delivered to the Gate.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Crowley put the book back on the bookshelf, and re-materialized his shirt around his torso. He dusted off his jacket, and threw it on over his shoulders. “Fine, let’s get this over with so I can finish my story.” 

The three angels surrounded him in a triangle, and by joining their hands around him and bathing him in their light, he was able to ascend. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d been in Heaven, except for Aziraphale’s trial. The gates loomed before him as they opened, and the three angels who had escorted him disappeared inside. 

Aziraphale appeared in front of Crowley, as did Raphael and… Her. Crowley could not have forgotten Her face if he’d tried. But he reached for Aziraphale first, burying his face in the angel’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you.” Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, then draped his wings around him. “I still had a few strings to pull myself,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. “After She found out about things, well, let’s just say She thought I was owed a favor.”

Crowley started to tremble in the safe folds of Aziraphale’s wings. “What do you mean, what are you talking about?” 

“Reclaim your name, Azarias,” Raphael said kindly. “Rise and join your brother.” 

Crowley was still shaking when She came over. “Welcome back, my child,” She murmured into his ear, and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

Crowley fell to his knees as a spear of pain swept through him. His back arched, and the scar tissue split straight down the middle. Two snow-white wings unfurled behind Crowley, and he panted harshly as they fluttered. Tender yet to the touch, he struggled to his feet, unused to balancing with his wings once again. “What--what is--what did You do?”

“A sacrifice is always rewarded, Azarias,” She said kindly, touching his cheek with cool fingers. “It may take time, but a sacrifice of love for the betterment of someone else? That’s a lesson more of your kind could have learned.” 

This time, when Aziraphale drew Crowley back to his feet, he pulled the other angel into Heaven behind him. The gates clanged shut, and Aziraphale tightened his grip on Crowley’s hand. “Welcome home, my darling.” 

End

**Author's Note:**

> In the Book of Tobit, Raphael masquerades on Earth as Azarias, a friend of the son of Tobit. I took liberties with that and made Crowley into Azarias, a brother-angel to Raphael. Not biological brother as we think of it, but Brother in the way that all angels consider themselves siblings. The Tower of Dis borrowed from "Paradise Lost" as well as DOOM and a half a billion other hell-based/demonic-based video games.


End file.
